Wilting

"Rhalkyr!" Illyria exclaims warmly, her face lighting up as she catches sight of you, her voice just
barely reaching a normal conversational tone even in her enthusiasm. Approaching you with long,
graceful strides, her smile is unusually bright despite the darker shadows beneath her eyes that
betray lack of sleep and stress. Pausing in whatever task she might have been here for, the delicate
faeling lays a hand on your arm. "It is wonderful to see you," she adds softly.

Turning rapidly from his examination of the desk at the sound of Illyria's voice,
Rhalkyr immediately and visibly relaxes as he processes the source of the sound. He remains where he
is, permitting Illyria to approach, his demeanour languid as he closes his eyes slowly at her, and
only opening them once the small hand rests upon his arm. He does not reply immediately, instead
leaning down to inspect Illyria's face with eyes that thin with displeasure - the shadows within the
confines of his mask deepening as hidden brows draw down in a frown. Lifting a massive hand, he
places the rough pads of his calloused fingers against Illyria's cheek, brushing the edge of his
thumb along the bruising under Illyria's eyes in a touch that is as tender and light as the whisper
of shadow. His voice is kindly, and warm, despite the ragged tones as he says, "Quiet, flower. Heart
sings, to see, and hear."

Illyria's eyes soften still further at the touch, though she maintains her posture of quiet poise,
keeping her face still for inspection. "Loud, sometimes," she murmurs in reply with a sparkle in her
eyes, unconsciously echoing the cadenced pattern of speech for a moment. With her other hand, she
touches the back of the the one on her face, letting it, too, linger. "My own heart is glad at your
presence. Have you been well, shadowcat?" Behind her, wispy dark diaphanous wings shift and trail
like storm clouds, and her slit pupils dilate a brief moment as she considers your vivid eyes above
the enigmatic mask. For a moment, as her gaze drifts down and then back, it seems as if she might
venture a question. Her lips seal, though, curving upward instead.

The faintest shift in the hint of skin about the eyes - a twitch of a smile,
perhaps, though it is difficult to tell with any certainty. The vivid green of his regard glimmers
with fond amusement at the response, Rhalkyr's own reply soft as he says, "Would like, to hear,
someday." Rather than give verbal answer to Illyria's question, he simply dips his head aside as he
lifts his left shoulder in a gesture that indicates only a very vague sense of affirmation. Studying
Illyria in silence for a span that stretches onwards, the heat of his hand upon Illyria's cheek
unmoving, he eventually lifts the fingers of his free hand to lightly lay the tip of his blunt
forefinger against the corner of Illyria's mouth. The rumble of his speech is so deep and low that
the single word seems more a sound of nature than something produced by a human throat - the gradual
crack of stone, or the slow splintering of a immense redwood. Gently, he bids, "Ask. Rhalkyr, will
not, admonish."

In a sudden, fey sort of impulse, Illyria turns her head that barest fraction to the side and
lightly kisses the rough fingertip, then steps back an inch or two. Despite the motion, her hand
remains atop your forearm still. Her eyes roam over you, studying in return, her gaze shadowed as
she considers the words that may or may not be spoken when the question is given voice. When it
comes, it is, similar to your nonverbal response of before- a simple gesture, as the faeling lifts
her own finger and taps her cheek where the edge of a mask would lie if she had one to match. Her
eyes are inquisitive but do not pressure, simply requesting without expectation of receiving.

The brush of soft lips upon the calloused, scarred tip of his finger elicits a
surprised sound from Rhalkyr , a peculiar blend of guttural rumble and a faint, rolling trill, his
eyes widening with unexpected delight. He remains perfectly still - Though it is the calm and
careful stillness of one that does not wish to spook a skittish creature, rather than the dreadful
prelude to violence of a predator lying in wait. Once he is apparently satsified that Illyria will
not bolt, he lowers his hand to place it beside Illyria's upon his arm, so that the edge of his palm
rests against Illyria's without trapping it. He cocks his head at the gesture, the angle of his jaw
steep as he considers for several beats, then something shifts in his eyes as he appears to come to
a decision. He lifts his free hand to brush his fingers along the unfeeling surface of his mask, his
voice a blend of pride, simple statement of fact, and the barest traces of an old, black bitterness.
"Is, face. Of what, want to be. Of what, am inside. Flesh is..." He grasps gently at the air, as if
seeking to pluck the right words from it, struggling for a small span before he settles on, "Not
right. Wrong."

Illyria's eyes drop once more from the vibrant green, traveling from scar to pale scar until she
reaches the tips of your bare toes, then shifts back up to linger on the fine line on your throat
before returning to the mask. Understanding, or whatever understanding might come of conclusions,
fills her eyes, and she nods. "Hurts?" she whispers in a curious and concerned tone. "Underneath?"
Her hand edges to the side draping lightly atop your, and she steps that tiny amount forward once
more. Intent, she reaches out, terribly slowly, but her hand does not venture toward the mask, but
rather a gentle brushing of messy gold locks from the bronzed forehead with a tenderness that
conveys itself from skin to skin as clearly as any words might hope to.

Throughout Illyria's study of the marks that mar the bronze expanse of his hulking
form, Rhalkyr's eyes never waver from the rose of Illyria's own, the polished emerald of his gaze
calm and patient. A simple nod meets the soft question, an uncomplicated up and down of the chin,
the motion curt. "Always." The word is said without rancour or complaint, the confirmation delivered
as easily as one might respond when asked if Night follows day. Not once does his attention flicker
from Illyria's eyes as the hand inches closer, and nor is there so much as a glimmer of violence in
his patient regard - No twitches of muscle, no reflexive spasms of suppressed aggression. He simply
waits, and allows Illyria to touch him, eyes lidding slowly closed at the contact.

Illyria's eyes shadow further at the confirmation, briefly, and her fingers continue onward to the
side of your head to tuck any sufficiently long strands behind the ear, trailing lightly over the
skin there before withdrawing. She sighs, the sound as light and ephemeral as the breaths of fresh
air that drift now and then through the cave. Closing her eyes, the second hand joins the first atop
your, holding there for several long moments before both lift away finally. "Thank you for telling
me," she says softly. "Is there aught I can do to help ease it?" The dark beneath her eyes seems
dark as pitch in the low light of the cave, casting her face in an oddly ritualistic light, as if
kohl'd with savage makeup.

Rhalkyr leans faintly into Illyria's touch, a soft exhalation of simple enjoyment
whispering forth from between the predatory snarl of his mask's carved teeth, quiet as a warm breeze
flowing through the tangle of jungle undergrowth. His eyes open once more only when all contact
ceases, the lack of gentle warmth flicking the lids apart to bare discs of riotously vibrant green.
In a tone tinged with wry humour, of the sort that has very to do with genuine mirth, he says, "Only
one, have asked." A slight shake of his head accompanies a searching, gauging look, that shade of
displeasure darkening his gaze once more as he studies the darkness that hangs from Illyria's eyes
like black half-moons. "Can ease, pain, of heart, instead. Rest. Take care, of, favourite flower." A
slow motion brings the back of his knuckles to brush against Illyria's cheek, the touch brief and
light. "Wilting."

From the fire that flashes in Illyria's eyes at the first comment, it is clear that she is surprised
and incredibly displeased at the lack of care or inquiry from the others of the commune. She bumps
her cheek further into the brief touch, catlike, and nods solemnly. "I will try," she murmurs, equal
concern in her eyes as she studies you. "If you take care of yourself as well. You've not been
about. I've worried for you. Of all the family in the forest, I love you the most dearly."

The texture of the shadows that surround Rhalkyr's eyes shifts subtly as the
glitter of his eyes softens, a rare and undiluted gentleness suffusing the intense green. Taking
great pains so as to not startle Illyria or otherwise convey any intent to harm, he turns his right
hand so that its palm cups Illyria's cheek, its mate rising to mirror the contact on the other side
of Illyria's face - His immense hands so large that he cradles Illyria's head almost entirely, the
appalling strength of the monstrous fingers turned instead to a tender warmth as he leans in and
rests his masked forehead against the unbarred skin of Illyria's brow, eyes so bright they are
almost lambent as they swallow Illyria's field of view. His voice is a ragged, torn purr of fondness
and warmth, a murmur as he says, "Love you, most, of all. Most precious, flower." With this, he
releases Illyria and steps back, eyes glittering still, until he is swallowed whole by the shadows -
and is gone.